Here Lies Mail Jeevas
by FragilePuzzle
Summary: The life and times of a legend. Or not.


_[[So I wrote a fic a while ago and I re-discovered it the other day, figured "why not post it on tumblr?" and then realized I didn't really have a blog to post it on. But here, have some sad Mattello from Matt's POV. ]]_

* * *

People always used to tell me that I was 'such a nice boy.' Really agreeable. Polite. Quiet. Followed the rules. I lived my life hoping that one day, that'd be what was written in the obituaries. Maybe even what was on my tombstone.

'Here lies Mail Jeevas. He was such a nice boy.'

And then maybe some big fancy letters that spelled out 'R.I.P.' Thinking about that comforted me. It wasn't that I wanted to die, no, but I'd always been afraid that I'd leave behind something extraordinary. Something for future generations to misinterpret.

I dunno. I was always afraid people would read me wrong, not that most bothered to read me at all. I was definitely an open book – just not a book on dragons, aliens, robots, or anything else that was even remotely interesting. If I was a book, there'd be no saving a hot princess. There'd be no getting the babe even if you were a fat plumber in clunky overalls. Nintendo had almost all of that under copyright, anyway.

If I were a book, I'd probably be a poorly-written tech-support manual for some undersold and outdated piece of technology nobody really wanted. Maybe an add-on to something fun. Something a lot cooler, something you could really use—something that made your pulse rush and your blood pump through your veins at twice its normal pace.

It's probably a poor assumption on my part to think that most people felt that way about technology. I do.

I might have been the thin paper leaflet that came with that rusty add-on, but he read me anyway. For whatever reason, he was interested in undersold and outdated pieces of technology that nobody really wanted.

If he was a book, he'd be a novella with a sleek black cover, a rigid spine, and papers freshly-cut. Not a single one bent. Inside, there'd be a story that left you on the edge of your seat: that made your palms sweat and your heart thump against your chest. The kind with guns and booze and maybe not even that many women because the way he wore his hair was a little questionable—

-Mello was his name.

I never knew if Mello was the protagonist of his own story. Probably not. He made it sound like God was. He talked about God—a lot. Always rubbing the crucifix of his rosary between his long fingers, scraping his nails (painted black) along Jesus' mangled body. I always thought to ask him if he ever wondered about whether or not Jesus would appreciate all of his devout followers wearing little copper-and-silver-and-fake-gold reenactments of his death around their neck when he came around again. I could never muster up the guts.

One day, Mello disappeared. He told me the orphanage was too much for him. Time and time again, he said he might just run away. He told me he didn't need it and to be really honest, I believed him. I didn't think Mello needed anything. Especially not me. I didn't try to stop him.

I spent sleepless nights wondering if Mello thought L was some kind of God. He always told me that God was the only thing that mattered. But if that was true, why was Near always on his mind? Why did I hear him whispering L's name as he clasped his hands around his rosary and again later when those same, slender fingers drew beneath the covers?

I thanked God once and a while for putting me in the same room as him. He made Heavenly little sounds after he thought I'd fallen asleep. Like Angels were blessing his tongue. I dunno.

.

I'd resigned myself to being that same old outdated manual. After I turned seventeen, I decided to leave the orphanage. It was getting weird, being one of the oldest there. I'm sure Roger was getting sick of me too. I'd heard that big waves were being made in the Kira case as far as Near went but still, nobody had heard a word on Mello.

I briefly thought to wonder if he was dead. I could vividly see him in a gutter somewhere, washed up, rosary wrapped around his gummy blue throat with his pretty purple lips still parted in a prayer. I always had to dig the heels of my palms into my eyes to rid myself of the image when I was finished entertaining the notion.

I'd settled down for a desk job at Super Tech. I took calls and redirected customers – told middle aged women where they could find the romantic comedy DVDs and begrudgingly recommended the latest and greatest FPS to acne-ridden teenage boys.

My apartment was nice. Small, but nice. I had a little routine I loved to fulfill. Every single day I would look forward to walking home from Super Tech, passing the comic store, indulging myself in a single latest-issue of whatever struck my fancy, and going home to read it on the toilet. When I was done with that, I'd slip it into a plastic cover and line it up on the shelves that housed my growing collection. I'd play games until dinner, eat alone, take a shower, and go to bed. I went grocery shopping only on Wednesdays.

That was when he came back.

He ruined everything.

All at once, the image I'd cherished for so long disintegrated. There was no longer any moderate gravestone in a neatly-kempt row.

"Matt—"

His voice cracked over my phone's cheap receiver. I could hear police sirens. I was surprised at my ability to recognize him so instantaneously.

"M—" I didn't have time to finish my stutter before his breathing rasped and faded. The line went dead and beeped several times. In my frustration, I knocked over a small shelf that'd held my action figures Mello had always so affectionately referred to as "_sissy-ass baby dolls."_

Mello was ruining my life.

"You want me to do _what_?!"

I'd quit my job at Super Tech. People who worked at Super Tech couldn't monitor little blonde pop stars for twenty hours a day. Mello and I were back together (not that kind of 'together,' just living together—we were never 'that kind' of together unless you counted me listening to him masturbate on a regular basis) and I was working for him. He didn't pay me. Not in cash or in gratitude. Most days, he just dismissed my tireless vigilance (that was sarcastic) and snapped at me for goofing on something or rather.

"You heard me," he said. His voice was so calm. Soothing. Mello was from Slovenia, which was an exciting country I'd never been to. He'd never been fully able to drop his accent. When we were kids, it was really thick. I kinda missed it – it was harder to tell if he was insulting me that way.

"Mello, that's crazy." My eyes traced along the crevices of his scar. If he could see where I was looking through the orange-tint lenses of my goggles, he'd be mad at me for staring.

"I'm entirely aware."

Everything Mello thought of was crazy. I was about ninety percent sure he was certifiably insane. If I said that, though, he'd probably shoot me a really dirty look. Mello was great at those.

"Mello—I mean, come on." I really didn't have an argument. "You don't wanna die, do you? What if you die? What if _we_ die?"

"I'd rather be dead than living in a world ruled by a mass murder with a god complex." The way he said it made it sound like he didn't want the "God" to be capitalized like he usually did. Sometimes, Mello was overdramatic about these things but I just couldn't bring myself to think this was one of those times.

"But—"

He cut me off with a kiss on my lips and my entire body froze up. I had no idea what to do. My first _fucking_ kiss, taken by Mello. He was such a goddamn prick.

I'd always thought that when Mello had sex, he'd sound a lot like he did when he masturbated. That choir inside of his chest, a symphony of delicious moans and little breathy pants that made me want to shove my hand down my pants if I thought about them for too long. I was wrong. He was even louder. I wasn't experienced and I was sure he could tell but much to my surprise, he didn't poke fun at me once. He guided my hips and kissed at my neck and wrapped his slender little legs around my torso—god, did he shave? He felt soft as a baby.

That night, I slept with Mello in my arms for the very first time. He cradled up to my chest like the innocent teen virgin in a summer blockbuster. I patted his pretty golden hair in a slow, stupid way, trying not to let him know how dumbfounded I was.

"Isn't this better than Super Tech?" he asked me. I didn't respond.

In my last moments, I'd begun to wonder what my grave would say. Being with Mello was driving me up the walls: the scar sure had wound his gears a few cogs too tight. I'd taken up chain smoking in rapid time. It only figures I'd use my final breath suck up a bit of that calming nicotine.

I was really regretting acting as cocky as Mello had instructed. Maybe those police wouldn't have shot me if I hadn't reached for the gun.

_'Here lies Mail Jeevas. He reached for the gun.'_ No, I could do better.

'_Here lies Mail Jeevas. The only job he ever had was at Super Tech.'_

_'Here lies Mail Jeevas. He never had a girlfriend.'_

_'Here lies Mail Jeevas. He only got laid once.'_ Only it wasn't so bad, because Mello was a sex God in all meanings of the term. The kind of God with a capital G.

_'Here lies Mail Jeevas. His life was ruined by Mello.'_ I found that to be most fitting. Blood was filling my lungs, and I found it harder and harder to breathe.

As I choked and gurgled and blood ran from my dry lips, I wondered how Mello's book would end.

I never knew the last chapters consisted only of blank pages.


End file.
